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It had no value. This little piece of knitted wool with its garish colours and uneven rows, yet, whenever Bucky rubbed the coarse material between his flesh thumb and index, he immediately felt better, as if it had been woven with some kind of magic. It was silly, he knew. It was just an ugly scarf, but he wore it all winter, and when it became too hot, he stuffed it in his pocket.
He would kill anyone who dared say it was a security blanket.
Not that anyone would. He was alone, running from both Hydra and whatever was left of SHIELD, as well as that man. So familiar… he could almost remember him, but the memory kept slipping away in the recesses of his mind whenever he tried to reach for it.
Bucky, the man had called him, and he liked the sound of it. The name felt as warm and comforting as the scarf. With a sigh, he lay back against the park bench and pulled it out of his pocket, letting his flesh fingers play with the bumpy stitches, annoyed the metal ones could feel nothing because the scarf's magic might have soothed him twice as much if he could.
He absent mindedly watched the Londoners walk passed him along the clean path, rarely sparing a glance at the neat lawns as green as emeralds or the flowery shrubs buzzing with insects and the promise of a warm spring. Bucky had been laying low in this city for months now, and no one seemed to have a clue. It was almost too easy, so it kept him on edge. Nothing was ever easy.
Yet, ever since he had sought refuge here, catching his breath on this very bench after a close call with a Hydra operative who had the damn passwords to turn him into a mindless tool again, ever since that day, he had been near invisible…
Or was it since that woman had approached him right after to ask him if he was alright, if he needed help? Bucky had laughed almost hysterically at her question. No one ever asked him if he was alright or needed help. He scared people away, and with good reason: he was a cold blooded killer, an assassin.
But that complete stranger had seen something else in him and offered a helping hand, even when he had mocked her for it.
"At least try not to catch a cold. Winters here are harsher than they seem," and with that, she had unwound the scarf which had been half hidden by her curly hair from around her neck, then placed it around his own.
Bucky had been so dumbfounded, he hadn't reacted. He thought he may have stopped breathing too. When he had come back to his senses, the woman was gone and it was too late to thank her.
That one random act of kindness had helped him realize there was more to this world than shadows and death. He smiled to himself at the memory, one of hat would never be erased, and he wound the scarf around his neck once more despite it being warm out in the sun.
Maybe it was a security blanket after all, but who cared? He was all but invisible in this gargantuan city of busy people.
"It is you!" a voice exclaimed.
Bucky was ready to bolt, but as he looked around for the threat, he was surprised to find the very woman he had been thinking about waving at him. The hair was unmistakable.
He tried to smile, recalling he owed her a thank you for the scarf, but it must have looked all wrong, unpracticed as he was, because the woman hesitated before visibly gathering her courage to close the distance between them.
"May I?" she asked gesturing at the empty space on the bench next to him.
He nodded, unable to look away. Had she looked this pretty the last time? It had been overcast that day, dark and chilly, puffs of air appearing in front of him as he gasped for breath, looking over his shoulder for other Hydra agents… so he might have had his mind focused elsewhere.
"It is you, isn't it? I recognise the scarf. I made it myself, you know. I got better," she laughed, pulling another one from her purse, not seeking to kind his lack of an answer. "I like coming here to knit on my lunch break when the sun is out. It's so peaceful, isn't it?"
And she did just that, her needles clicking softly as she finished a row of electric blue before starting another. Bucky liked the sound of her knitting. It was smoothing, musical, like a lullaby made of the clicketies of needles and the swish of wool between her fingers.
"Thank you," he finally managed to blurt out when her rows had turned to gold. "For the scarf."
"I'm glad it helped," she said, which gave him pause. "You seem to be doing better. Are you still running away?"
Now he was on the defensive.
"How do you know?" he demanded, wondering if she was with Hydra or SHIELD.
"I was in your place, once upon a time. Always running, scared, lost… But I wasn't alone, I had help. I just thought you could use some too."
Her eyes were twinkling mischievously as they darted down to his neck and the scarf nestled there. He had always felt the scarf had some magic of its own, but he had never imagined it was quite that literal. His fingers reached for it once more, and he instantly felt at ease, safe… then he noticed a woman who had been on the phone for some time, looking their way now and then suddenly walk away, then return a minute later with a puzzled frown, glance their way, only to walk off again. She did this a couple more times, looking more and more frustrated with each attempt to remain nearby.
"How-" he asked.
"Shh," she cut him off, her index over her lips. "It's a secret. Keep the scarf, as long as you need time to get back on your feet."
Bucky was too dumbstruck for words, but his mind was frantically searching for anything that could explain this. He had seen stranger things, he supposed, so he eventually shrugged it off and accepted the fact this dame could knit magical scarfs.
"What will that one do?" he asked with a nod at the blue, gold and now pink scarf.
"It will be a truly terrible colour combination. It's a Christmas gift for my ex."
Bucky barked out a laugh.
"I bet he deserves it," he said.
"His mother will force him to wear it too, because it's the polite thing to do," she added with that mischievous smile of hers.
"I like the way you think," he smiled back.
She reminded him of someone… Someone as small as her, with too much sass for his own good… but once more, the wisp of memory faded before he could take a good look at it. When he shook himself back to the present, his bench companion had leaned closer, staring at him right in the eyes, as it she could see what was going on beyond, in his broken, desolate mind.
"I think I should knit you a hat next," she declared.
She knew. Bucky didn't know how, but she knew his head was messed up, and once more, she was offering to help.
"As long as it's not pink," Bucky replied cautiously.
"Orange it is," she agreed with the sort of shit-eating grin that got you into trouble.
She then brandished a spool of wool which burned his retinas the colour was so vivid.
"You're such cruel dame," he chuckled.
"Just Hermione, but I appreciate the compliment," she said, offering her hand to shake.
Bucky hesitated, but she had proved herself to be an ally, so he cautiously accepted her hand and shook it as gently as he could.
"Bucky," he replied, giving what he felt was his real name for the first time since he had resurfaced from being no one. "Maybe you can teach me to knit so I can return the favour?"
She blinked at him, then burst out laughing. Maybe he had made a friend too.